


Anticipation

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Inline with canon, M/M, Memories, No Plot/Plotless, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-22 23:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3747889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ciel is a brat, he is overconfident and takes Sebastian’s support for granted, but there is something worth reverence at his core, the same thin shred of iron will that summoned the demon in the first place." Ciel wants to remember and Sebastian learns respect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anticipation

There are many things about Ciel Phantomhive that Sebastian loathes. Human emotions are a strain for him, a stretch he can imitate but not fully achieve, but there are times when he’s certain he can grasp the concept of “hatred” in the overheated human sense. He hates the way Ciel pouts, the haughty tilt of his head that says he can’t be bothered to concern himself with a mere demon, the flippant way he orders Sebastian to act according more to his whims than to his overarching plan. It aches under Sebastian’s borrowed skin like an itch he can’t scratch, tightens imperceptibly under his smile, and if the letter of the contract binds him to passivity for the time being, he comforts himself with the thought that it will all be worth it at the end.

The hatred is not surprising, even if the emotion is unfamiliar to him; Sebastian could expect that, was ready for it on some level. It’s the respect that starts to form that shocks him more than anything else, appreciation so strong it’s very nearly the warm curling edges of affection. Because Ciel is a brat, he is overconfident and takes Sebastian’s support for granted, but there is something worth reverence at his core, the same thin shred of iron will that summoned the demon in the first place.

Tonight it’s easier to see than most days, shining clear from behind the boy’s blue and contract-sealed eye alike. He is sitting straight on his bed, the tilt to his chin that looks less stuck-up than determined under the circumstances, and when he says “You’re going to remind me,” there’s only the faintest quaver over the stubborn firmness underneath.

“I apologize, young master,” Sebastian purrs, turning the words over his tongue until they have all the sound of sincerity. “Could you clarify your request?” It’s not that he truly needs the specificity; it’s clear enough the few times this has happened before at Ciel’s urging, evident in the look in the boy’s eyes and the fixed line of his mouth. But it’s satisfying to hear it, it’s always satisfying to hear it, and after months of voluntarily bowing to every one of the other’s fleeting impulses Sebastian has learned to take his pleasure where he can.

From the way Ciel glares at him, this particular maneuver isn’t going to pass. “ _Remind me_ ,” he says again, sharp and harsh with the words until they’re knife-edged in his voice. “Of the night we met.” He tips his head to the side, twists a smile onto his mouth. “Unless you’d rather I forgot why I contracted with you in the first place?”

“Of course not,” Sebastian allows. There’s a strange pressure in his chest, like fire in his human-shaped veins or a weight bearing down on him. He’s learned this is anticipation, looking forward to something with the anxious desperation of humanity that turns itself into physical strain in his limbs. “If you would like to be reminded, I can certainly assist.”

“Good,” Ciel says, turning away without waiting for more. “You might as well get on with it.”

Sebastian takes the time to bow, folding a hand over his heart and letting a smile creep over his lips. “Yes.” The ache is getting worse, straining into his blood until his hands are nearly shaking when he lifts them to his mouth to pull his gloves off with his teeth. “My lord.”

Ciel starts screaming the moment Sebastian’s fingers touch his skin. It’s not the contact itself that is painful, though Sebastian suspects Ciel himself wouldn’t make much of the distinction; it’s the sensations he is evoking, dragging up the details lost by time and the flaws of human memory, printing them back onto Ciel’s consciousness in exquisite precision. Ciel’s skin remains unmarked, his body unharmed in truth, but he’s shrieking as if he’s being branded all over again, gasping enormous choking sobs of air and continuing with the high wail of the child he is. Sebastian doesn’t need to see his face to know the expression he has, the wide-eyed glazed stare into a history made real again by the inhuman power in Sebastian’s fingertips.

Sebastian never fails to be impressed by human imagination, the twist of thought that can make the false seem real; perhaps it is that that makes deception come so easily to them, that their own minds are lying to them all the time. The idea seems absurd, impossible for Sebastian to grasp for more than a moment, but he smiles at the foolishness of it anyway, can feel his eyes going uncommonly soft as he looks down at the agonized strain arching Ciel’s back into a dangerous curve against the bed.

Sebastian won’t let him hurt himself. The mind is good at nightmares but in the end Ciel will come out unharmed but for the cold sweat of panic on his skin and the vocal chords he’ll scream hoarse. It makes Sebastian almost wish he could be reliving the experience playing over in Ciel’s mind, the bruises and the blood, the sound of bones giving way and the sour smell of flesh burning under heated metal. It would be entertaining, to have that awareness in his mind, perhaps to step into the role of the attackers Ciel is so determined to destroy. But he has his own part to play in this memory, the weight of shadows like oil in place of skin and sharp teeth pressing against his mouth like they never do, now. He can remember this himself, as Ciel’s screams fall silent and his hands form into fists on the sheets under him; the desperate certainty in a pair of eyes staring up at him, the diamond-hard will laid bare and clear by the damage done to the boy’s frail human shell. He remembers the scream, too, the wail of pain as the contract settled into Ciel’s eye, but Ciel of the present sighs instead, a shaky exhale like some part of him knows the worst is over, like it’s relief instead of pain in his thoughts.

Sebastian doesn’t realize he’s leaning in closer, doesn’t know his mouth is watering in the best response his human body can offer to the heat of desire in his mind. It’s more than possessiveness, more than hunger for food or sex or power or any of the other various appetites he has seen in the humans around him -- it’s all-encompassing, all-consuming, the definition of his existence until every proof of Ciel’s darkening soul is like an orgasmic shudder through Sebastian’s entire being, thrumming the very essence of his being into breathless satisfaction. It’s at times like this that he is able to indulge, to let the surge of adrenaline loose into his body until he’s trembling with the force of the hunger, the desire strained around the need for patience until it’s its own sort of pleasure, sharp and sweet and aching all at once.

Then “Sebastian,” weak and hoarse but clear at least to Sebastian’s hearing, and Sebastian lets the hedonistic appreciation go, pushes it back and away to be retrieved later and savored at more length. Right now he has his duties, responsibilities that have become almost sweet for the self-restraint they require, the necessity of appearing human while every part of his instinct is crying out to consume the unbelievably delicious meal right in front of him.

Sebastian will wait. He can afford to, with all eternity for his use,  _wants_  to wait when every passing day makes the temptation that much sweeter, builds the ultimate resolution impossibly brighter in his expectations. He can pull patience around himself, wear it like he wears the uniform his master has given him, accept into his very self like the name that has become his even in his own mind. It fits him like the respect that he is learning, the constant surprises building up into a framework of appreciation for the trembling child in front of him.

He doesn’t remember ever having his expectations exceeded before, by human or shinigami or demon. That in and of itself is worthy of respect.


End file.
